by G. M. Best
‘Why was there such a delay?’
‘Because, unbeknown to Mr Harding, his wife had been carrying their first child for a number of months. As you can imagine, that complicated matters. It was only when I came here after my accident and heard how Mr Harding’s wife had died in childbirth that I realized what a difficult time he must’ve had.’
‘So which one of Mr Harding’s daughters is the child of Catherine Farrell?’
‘That I don’t know, sir. Only he can tell you that.’
‘And what of Catherine Farrell?’
‘She died the next day. It’s not often the public get a chance to see a woman hung so the mob was twice as large as usual. I can see her now in her black gown ascending the steps that led to the gallows. Her face was white as starched linen. The hangman told her to remove her bonnet. She stood frozen-like while he securely tied her arms to her sides, put the white cap on her head, strapped her ankles together and adjusted the rope around her neck. She muttered something about it being hard to die so young and never feel God’s sunshine on her face again but she made no attempt to resist. Nor publicly did she express any remorse over what had led her to that spot. The hangman thrust a handkerchief in her hand and told her to drop it when she was ready. It seemed an eternity before she gave the signal but in reality it must’ve been just a minute or so. The hangman drew the bolt and did his job well. Her neck snapped quickly and her body slowly swung round and round. There she remained until the requisite hour for public display of the corpse had passed.’
Trollope could not help shuddering at the manner of her death and an eerie silence filled the room at the completion of Gaunt’s account. It was broken when the bedesman grimly concluded, ‘And the same fate awaits her daughter because I’m sure she’s behind the murder of Thomas Rider and Jeremiah Smith. She must have found out that they knew her secret and wanted to silence them.’
The full enormity of what John Gaunt had told him slowly began to sink into Trollope’s mind. As far as all of Barchester was concerned, Eleanor and Susan Harding were the natural daughters of the warden, yet one of them was actually the illegitimate child of a convicted killer. Did the daughters know this or did they both think they were true sisters? Perhaps even more importantly, did Dr Grantly know? If it became public knowledge that the archdeacon’s wife was possibly the child of Catherine Farrell it would completely destroy his ecclesiastical career. Was that enough motive for him to kill anyone who might have discovered the secret? And what of John Bold? He obviously loved Eleanor Harding. Would he kill to protect her from being shamed? Any hope of a successful medical career would be ruined if it were thought he contemplated marriage with a murderess’s daughter. Then there was Mr Harding. Good man though he was, would he murder to protect the reputation of the daughters he loved? Nor could it be ruled out that either Eleanor or Susan had committed murder. A knife blow to the heart was not beyond the strength of an impassioned woman. Perhaps Gaunt was right and one of the two women had indeed inherited her mother’s criminality.
6
HIDDEN IDENTITY
Anthony Trollope knew there was no way he could convey to the inspector what John Gaunt had told him without that eventually exposing the terrible story of Catherine Farrell to the public gaze. Nor was it appropriate to try and speak about it to either John Bold or Dr Grantly, who, for all he knew, might be totally in the dark about what Mr Harding had done. Indeed, he assumed that was their position, though he could not rule out that one of them knew and was prepared to kill to prevent the secret becoming known. If Gaunt was right, then at least one of Mr Harding’s daughters knew the secret and was the murderer. But he had no idea which one. If it was Eleanor Harding, he had been foolish not to pass on Crumple’s information to the inspector. The only viable option he had left was to speak in private to Mr Harding, but he knew even that was not without risk. There was a possibility – admittedly remote – that the warden was the killer. A loving parent will do anything to protect his child.
Obtaining an opportunity to speak with the warden without others being present proved difficult and Trollope did not achieve it until shortly before supper. When he entered the book-lined study, Mr Harding was sitting on his accustomed chair at his desk, trying to compose a sermon for Sunday but without much success because his mind was taken up too much with the two murders. He laid down his pen and Trollope took this to mean his arrival was a welcome distraction.
‘I had a long conversation with John Gaunt this afternoon,’ Trollope said as he sat down opposite Mr Harding.
‘And did he tell you of our long association?’ Mr Harding queried, sensing his visitor’s disquiet.
‘Yes, and of a kind act undertaken by you many years ago.’
The warden’s face visibly whitened but his manner remained calm. ‘Then he has told you about Newgate?’
Trollope indicated that he had and Mr Harding looked as if the bottom had dropped out of his world. He dropped his head into his hands in the manner of someone who was about to be physically sick. Then he resorted to what he always did in moments of high stress. His hands went out to play his imaginary violincello. Trollope watched the strange movements of the warden’s hands and saw in their frenzied playing the extent of the emotional storm that was sweeping through Mr Harding’s mind. Unsure what to do, he could only watch and hope that the soundless music would eventually soothe the unfortunate man before any member of his family entered and saw the havoc that his words had wrought on him. It seemed an eternity before Mr Harding’s trembling hands suddenly came to an abrupt stop and the eyes that had glazed over looked at him again.
‘Forgive me, Mr Trollope. I thought I had prepared myself for such a moment but I was wrong.’
‘There is nothing to forgive, Mr Harding – not now nor in what happened all those years ago. You took pity on an innocent child and offered her a good home and, even more importantly, your love.’
‘It’s kind of you to say so, but you know as well as I that most people will not view it like that. They’ve not seen what I saw when I took my decision – a woman slumped on a stone seat in a damp dungeon lit just by one barred and grimy high window. A woman clutching the one thing she loved while her every muscle quivered with agony at what lay ahead of her. A woman, lost and stupefied, who would rather accept the fires of hell than seek forgiveness from a God whom she felt had deserted her. Nor have they heard what I heard. A woman begging me to fulfil my calling as a Christian minister as she clutched at any straw that might yet save her child.’
The warden’s hands momentarily resumed their playing before he could continue speaking. ‘I thought that I’d buried the past completely when I came here to Barchester. You can imagine what a shock it was to me when John Gaunt arrived in the city. If he spoke about what had happened then I knew neither my daughters nor I would ever be able to show our faces in public again. Fortunately he promised not to tell anyone about Catherine Farrell and I was able to arrange for the poor man to have residence at Hiram’s.’
‘Are you implying that he blackmailed you into giving him a position here?’
‘No, that’s not in his nature.’
Trollope had been deeply moved by the warden’s outpouring but it did not prevent him trying to make Mr Harding focus on the present rather than the past. ‘I understand your disquiet, sir, and, for that reason, I would prefer not to share with others what Gaunt told me. But there have been two deaths and it is highly probable that the murders were to prevent your secret becoming known. Mr Gaunt told Thomas Rider about Catherine Farrell and Rider conveyed the story to Jeremiah Smith. Their loose tongues were a danger. You may not like to hear it, but Mr Gaunt thinks the murderer is Catherine Farrell’s child. Like it or not, you may have to tell the world which of your daughters is the cuckoo you introduced into your family nest.’
‘They are both true daughters of mine in my sight. Do you think that the one who is not my flesh and blood is any less precious in my sight because of that?’ Mr H
arding declared vehemently. ‘I’ve brought both of them up since they were infants. I’ve dandled them on my knee, wiped away their tears, read them stories at night. I’ve seen them both grow in beauty and in character. Would you have me destroy one in order to save the other? What kind of choice does that leave me?’
Such was the intensity with which this was said that for the first time Trollope felt he could imagine the kind warden killing someone if it was in defence of his daughters. ‘Sometimes one has to make a choice between two evils, Mr Harding,’ he countered. ‘If your story becomes public, you may have to choose between letting the public gossip destroy the reputation of both your daughters or letting it destroy the reputation of just one of them.’
‘You may be right, sir, but that is not a choice open to me, even if I were prepared to make it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t know which is my child and which is the child of Catherine Farrell. I never have.’
Trollope could not disguise his amazement. ‘How can that be?’
‘When I told my wife about my decision to adopt the murderess’s child, she was very upset. She said that I was a hopeless fool to contemplate bringing the child of such a monster into our home. I tried to reassure her. I did not divulge what Catherine Farrell had told me during her confession but I told her the woman was not as black as she had been painted. That she had suffered much before resorting to murder. When that produced no change in my wife’s attitude, I described how pretty the baby was and what a difference it would make for a childless couple to have a daughter to love. In reply she confided that she was already pregnant and we needed no stranger’s offspring to make us parents.’ Mr Harding paused and Trollope could see from the look in the warden’s eyes that his mind was reliving that scene. When he resumed, his voice had become a painful whisper. ‘I won’t lie to you. Her news transformed my thinking on the matter. I regretted my hasty decision in agreeing to adopt Catherine Farrell’s child and I agreed to break my solemn vow.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘I simply left the child in the care of the wet nurse that had been recommended by John Gaunt and, God forgive me, I made a new vow. I promised my wife that I’d continue to pay for the child’s welfare but I’d never make it a member of our family.’
‘But you did bring the child into your home!’ exclaimed Trollope. ‘So what made you revert back to your original vow?’
‘The death of my wife in childbirth. When the doctor brought me the news that I was not only a father but also a widower, I suffered what amounted to a complete breakdown. Although I continued to fulfil my role within the parish, it was as if part of me had died. Despite all the protestations of friends, I refused to see the child that had killed my wife or even give it a name. The doctor arranged for the baby to be taken into care until the state of my mind improved. He used a woman that he knew would be kind to her. That was the state of affairs for almost three years. I’m still not sure what brought about a recovery. All I know is that it suddenly came to me that my wife’s death was nothing to do with the birth of our child. I realized that it was a punishment sent by God for having broken my word to Catherine Farrell. In that instant I knew that it was my duty to love both children. I determined to leave London with both of them and make a fresh start where their history was not known. That’s why I came here to Barchester.’
‘I can see how you could pass off both children as yours. No one would challenge a newly arrived widower. However, I still don’t see why you don’t know which of your daughters is truly yours.’
The warden smiled at Trollope’s confusion. ‘I knew that I might not be able to resist loving the child of my own blood more than an adopted child. To avoid that temptation I decided that I mustn’t know which child was mine and which that of Catherine Farrell.’
Trollope looked at him doubtfully. ‘But surely that wasn’t possible?’
‘On the contrary, it was easy. I’d seen neither child for three years and so all I had to do was ensure that they were brought to me in such a way as to prevent me knowing from which home they came. They were sufficiently near in age that I could not distinguish between them and I found it easy to pass them off as non-identical twin sisters.’
‘And how did you achieve that?’
‘I took temporary accommodation in a hotel in London where I wasn’t known. Once I’d finished making arrangements for my move to Barchester, I sent a parcel with an accompanying letter to the woman looking after my daughter and a matching parcel and letter to the woman who was bringing up Catherine Farrell’s daughter. Neither, of course, knew of the existence of the other. Within each parcel there was an identical set of clothes that I’d purchased. Each accompanying letter thanked the woman for her help and then stated that, although I’d long been unwell, my health had sufficiently recovered to enable me to care for my daughter. Each woman was instructed to ensure that my daughter was dressed in the clothes provided on the Monday of the following week. On that day I arranged for their collection.’
‘But surely the person who collected the girls would know from which home they came?’
The warden shook his head. ‘No, because I appointed two different agents for that purpose. Neither knew of the other’s existence and each collected a child on the morning of the same day and brought it to my hotel. I told the hotel manager to expect the arrival of two children but made a point of not being present when either of them arrived. In that way I could not tell which agent had brought which child. By the time I arrived back at my hotel rooms all I saw was two young girls who were dressed identically and who were fortunately not that dissimilar in facial appearance to make me know which might be mine. They were playing together thanks to the encouragement of the hotel servant who’d been selected to look after them until my return. So you see I really don’t know whether Eleanor or Susan is the child of Catherine Farrell.’
‘But didn’t they speak of their earlier homes? They must’ve missed those who’d cared for them for three years and whom they’d doubtless come to view as their mothers?’
‘I won’t deny that both of them shed tears, but from the outset I made it clear that neither were to speak of their past to me. It helped that they took comfort in each other’s company. Moreover, I had the foresight not to take them straight to Barchester where others might heed them. For six months we travelled around the country, moving on to a different place every few days. In that way I diverted them and filled their minds with new experiences. A young child’s memory is short. By the time I took them to Barchester they were behaving as if they’d known each other all their lives and they looked to me as a father. It was easy to pass them both off as my own.’
‘Do they know of this?’
Mr Harding sighed. ‘No. I’ve never told either of them. Why should I destroy their happiness by telling them about something that wasn’t of their making and which they can’t change?’
‘Don’t you think that a child has the right to know who are its true parents?’
‘It’s easy to say that but some rights are best ignored. What possible good could come of knowing that your mother might have been a murderess who killed your father? Isn’t it preferable for each of them to think that they are both the daughters of a cathedral precentor?’
Trollope could see the logic behind the warden’s actions but he also recognized that the murders at the almshouse threatened to shatter the façade under which Mr Harding and his daughters had lived. ‘Two men have already died because of your secret,’ he said with complete candour. ‘Will you risk Gaunt’s life by continuing to have your family live a lie?’
Once again the warden’s hands involuntarily played the violincello for a few moments. The music matched the pounding of his heart and became a kind of elegy for the two dead men whom he had regarded as friends. Only when his fingers had played the final notes did he answer. ‘I know I want no more men to die but nor do I want to see the happiness of my children destr
oyed.’ He struggled to retain his composure and blushed with annoyance at his weakness. ‘Have you any idea how much I now regret not acting more honestly from the outset?’ The ache of his pain was palpable.
Trollope wished that he could somehow bring peace to the warden’s tortured mind but he knew that it was more important that he spoke the truth. ‘Gaunt is frightened. Only his love for you is preventing him speaking out. I don’t think you can rely on him remaining silent for much longer. When he spoke to me he was absolutely convinced that the murderer must be the child of Catherine Farrell. You may hate me for saying it but he may be right. And, if he’s wrong, then it still has to be either someone else that you love – your true daughter or John Bold or Dr Grantly – or someone that loves you enough to kill rather than see you suffer. Which of the bedesmen would you place in that category? Would Benjamin Bunce, for example, murder his friends for your sake?’
‘Enough! Enough! I can stand no more of this!’ Tears ran down the warden’s cheeks. ‘Can you imagine what it’s like to live in the knowledge that at any moment the happiness of all those you love could be destroyed? Or, worse still, to fear that someone you love may have committed murder?’
‘I’m sure it is like being in hell – and therefore, whatever the cost, you must be more proactive in helping uncover the murderer.’
‘So what would you do if you were in my position?’ asked the warden in despair.
‘First, I’d bring the whole matter into the open within your family. I think it’s highly likely that your link with Catherine Farrell’s child will soon enter the public domain. It’s better that your family should hear everything from you than that they should discover it through the press. Then I would inform the inspector. You need to keep him on your side. If he hears about Catherine Farrell from John Gaunt or me rather than from you, he’ll be bound to assume you’ve been deliberately trying to pervert the course of justice. For the same reason I’d also tell him about Eleanor’s sleep-walking and that she and Bold were seen apparently plotting together. ’